


stand fast, shield raised

by BlackJacketsandPens



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Gen, bonus haurchefant for all your fussing needs, local idiot is brave beyond measure and does smth stupid saves ishgard in the process, this is one of my favorite bits of this wol's backstory, will wol stop having carteneau flashbacks? no
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:59:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23615605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackJacketsandPens/pseuds/BlackJacketsandPens
Summary: Moenbryda, G’raha, he thought. Noraxia. Una. Everyone else...I’m sorry. I’m still sorry. But this time I’m not going to fail. This time, I will protect them. This time, no one’s going to die.He shifted his grip on his sword, and glared up at the dragon as it approached, as its army approached, and made his vow to himself. He wasn’t going to move. Nothing was going to make him move, and nothing was going to get through him.The Warrior of Light stands tall on the Steps of Faith, and does not falter.
Kudos: 13





	stand fast, shield raised

The Steps were--- it was chaos. If it weren’t the middle of the day, if it weren’t so cold, he’d be reminded violently of Carteneau. It was still close, though; the screaming, the smell of blood, the clash of steel, how many people surrounded him, fighting, falling, all at once, it was...it was familiar, uncomfortably so. But he couldn’t stop. Couldn’t walk away. None of them could, but him most of all.

He was a Warrior of Light. He couldn’t back down. He couldn’t...he wouldn’t fail, not here.

There were so many, though, hundreds of dragons and draconic beasts, and towering above them all was their leader, a huge dragon whose head nearly touched the sky--- or at least it seemed that way to him. But they had to keep fighting. For everyone still in the city, all the people hiding behind the walls. Even if this war wasn’t just or right, like Ysayle had implied, that didn’t mean they could just stand back and let people die. He couldn’t just do that. He--- he couldn’t. Never. 

But the barriers were being smashed through, and it didn’t seem like the dragonkiller someone fired --- even if it had been a direct hit, the metal lance protruding from the giant dragon’s side --- had done much at all. It...he couldn’t let it get in. he couldn’t. But what was he supposed to do?

He looked over his shoulder at the final barrier, and back at the oncoming horde, and back again, and...he bit his lip. What else choice did he have? None at all, not really. It seemed the obvious answer, the one he should have thought of earlier.

He shifted, moving back until he stood in front of the gate, and planted his feet firmly on the ground beneath him. 

He wondered briefly, as he braced himself, what _she’d_ think about this, if she were here. He could almost hear her in his head, honestly.

_“What th’ hells d’ye think yer doin’, pup?! Have ye gone mad?! Get away from there an’ go fight it like a reasonable person, ye moron, else ye get killed--- an if ye get killed, I’m gonna bring ye back jus’ so I can kill ye myself!”_

…yeah, that sounded about right. But even if he knew what she’d say, it wouldn’t stop him. It couldn’t. She wasn’t here, and for all he knew, she was dead, too. Like everyone else. Gone like all the people he couldn’t save, failed to save. 

He raised his shield high, then, bracing himself against the gate.

_Moenbryda, G’raha,_ he thought. _Noraxia. Una. Everyone else...I’m sorry. I’m still sorry. But this time I’m not going to fail. This time, I will protect them. This time, no one’s going to die._

He shifted his grip on his sword, and glared up at the dragon as it approached, as its army approached, and made his vow to himself. He wasn’t going to move. Nothing was going to make him move, and nothing was going to get through him.

The horde came first. He didn’t know how many of them. His eyes are focused on the big one, still somewhat distant --- did the second dragonkiller hit, he thought it did, he heard it roar --- and he didn’t register much. He won’t remember how many he felled, later; they’ll tell him there was at least forty Dravanians in a pile at his feet, eventually, by the end of it, but in the present, he couldn’t tell. Couldn’t see them. Just struck out with his blade at anything scaly that approached, anything roaring, anything that struck at him. Eyes fixed ahead, eyes fixed on the great beast of a dragon that slouched slowly forward, roaring.

It got bigger as it got closer, bigger and bigger, consuming his vision, blocking out the sky. But he didn’t move. He kept his shield raised, kept his sword tight in his hand. He was soaked with blood by now, stained with it, his paladin’s armor and his face and his dark hair, all of it. But he didn’t care. Didn’t notice. Grey eyes burned into that dragon, refusing to look away, refusing to move, refusing to stand down. He didn’t hear anything else, see anything else. Nothing else existed but the dragon, him, and the wall behind him.

It roared again, bellowing down at the little creature who stood between it and its prey. He roared back at it, half-mad with the focus and adrenaline and determination to stand his ground, a bellow that bubbled up from somewhere deep in him he didn’t recognize, something animal and full of rage and pain. 

But even so, he refused to move.

He saw something build in its throat, fire or acid or whatever it spit, and it spewed forth, all but drowning him and the corpses around him. He kept his shield high and it hissed and melted from the assault, burning away but keeping his face intact. He didn’t know how long it lasted, it could have been bells, but eventually it stopped, and he tossed his ruined shield aside. It wouldn’t help him now.

But that moment of hesitation, that moment of distraction, was one moment too long.

He saw it coming, saw it diving down for him, but it was too late to move, and then jaws crunched down, cutting through his armor like paper. One arm was free, free to claw and clutch helplessly against the side of its huge face, but his torso, his head, his sword arm, all within its mouth. He felt teeth dig into his flesh, crushing bone, smelled blood, smelled the hot wet stench of its mouth--- he couldn’t see anything, it hurt, it hurt so much, everything was on fire and his vision was greying out even in this blackness. He felt his feet leave the ground, and he thought he could hear himself screaming. Maybe. Everything was screaming, everything was fire. 

He kicked helplessly, clutched and scraped at its head from the outside, but it pressed on, biting down, cutting through him, he’d be bitten clean in half, he’d die, he was going to die, he didn’t want to die like this!

He--- no. _No_.

If he died like this, he would die taking this dragon with him.

_He was not going to fail_.

Barely conscious, he shifted his grip on his blade once again, and with all the strength left in him, he plunged it forward and up, hard as he could, until he felt it connect with something and then pushed it further. He was in its mouth, in its head, the only thing it would hit was its eye, its brain. If it was about to bite him it half, it would die doing it. And he would have done one thing right, his last act would be--- he wouldn’t have failed this. 

He thought he felt it let go. Thought he felt it fall. Thought he felt himself fall. He wasn’t sure--- he couldn’t tell a lot. Everything was going dark, everything sounded so far away. He thought he heard something above him--- a voice? Voices? He couldn’t...it couldn’t…

Well...he thought he’d killed it. So...that was a good note to end on.

He dreamed, then. Dreams he wouldn’t remember, not really. Soft voices, familiar and distant and kind, murmuring words he couldn’t hear. A hand on his arm, something like a reassurance, a promise he did well. Pale blue eyes watching over him. Fragments of things that faded like mist in the dawn as he finally stirred.

He woke in a bed, unfamiliar at first, and everything hurt. He couldn’t move. But--- but he hurt. He hurt, and his shaky breaths rasped loud in his ears, and his heart pounded, and...that meant he was alive. He was alive? Huh, that was... _wait---_

“...did...did we win…?” He managed, voice a hoarse croak, hoping someone was in the room to answer. “Is...is Ishgard…?”

“Bran!” The voice was a startled gasp, and though he could barely turn his head to look at its owner, he didn’t need to--- Haurchefant appeared in view almost immediately, eyes wide, hovering over him looking stricken and palpably relieved both. “Thank the Fury! We had feared the worst!” He wrung his hands. “Gods, when they brought you to Dragonhead and we saw your wounds--- when they told us what you had _done_ \--- what were you thinking, Bran?! To face a dragon that size on your own, to stand against the horde alone?! You could have died! And I was not there at your side to---”

“...hey,” he managed weakly, flopping his hand in an attempt to stop the Elezen’s fussy, worried tirade. “I...I’m okay. I...I lived. So...so did we…?”

“Yes, Bran,” Haurchefant said after a moment, taking that hand in his. “We won. You won us the day--- you killed their leader even as it nearly killed you. What remnants of its troops scattered to the winds, then. The last gate didn’t fall, and Ishgard is safe, and we have you and yours--- mostly you, it would seem--- to thank for it.”

He let out a weak and weary sigh, a shaky smile settling on his face. “...good,” he murmured. “That’s…that’s good.” He closed his eyes again, a slow exhale leaving him.

Haurchefant’s hand didn’t move just yet. “You’ve become quite a legend already, my friend,” he said warmly, quietly. “Ishgard’s Wall, they’ve called you now. Well, that and Vishap’s Bane, after the dragon, but I think the former has a better ring to it, don’t you?” A weak, breathy laugh escapes him, and Haurchefant squeezes his hand. “Ishgard’s Wall, indeed. We owe you much, Bran. You have my gratitude, and the gratitude of all my homeland. Rest now, alright? Your companions have been worried, and I’m sure they’d like you to return to them soon.”

“...alright,” he murmured. “I’ll...rest.” He’s earned it, hasn’t he? He didn’t fail this time. He really protected them, really saved them all. He did...he did good. He did well. That thought in mind, he drifted off easily enough again, and was gone. Perhaps he would have more of those dreams, ones that would fade like dust in the morrow, but he wouldn’t remember if he did. 

Either way...he had won. He hadn’t failed. He could only hope...that he wouldn’t fail next time, either, whatever that might be.

**Author's Note:**

> This has been one of the biggest parts of my WoL Bran's backstory pre-HW since I made him around 3.1, and I love it so much. I wrote a shorter version for RP stuff, but I wanted to flesh it out a lot more. It's just such a great image.
> 
> Fun fact, yes, this is the same Bran from the Gaius oneshot I wrote; after this is the banquet and that, uh, haha. Well, he's a DRK now for a reason.


End file.
